20 20
by LittleMender
Summary: Tag to 4x03 Pretty Red Balloon. She pushed away from her desk and walked stealthily toward the bullpen.  Pausing at the doorway, she leaned against the frame and just looked at him for a moment, curious as to what she might see.


**I have to say, I'm enjoying Season 4, especially these last two episodes—somewhat like Season 1 but more grown-up. The promo for "Pretty Red Balloon" looked rather ho-hum, but I thought the episode had some wonderful moments, both funny and sad. And so, this tag.**

20/20

One by one her team members had passed her door, leaning in to give her a grin and a near affectionate good night. And she had welcomed them, without a single glare or grimace or roll of her eyes. She knew they were glad to have her back. _She_ was glad to _be_ back. At least there hadn't been any more awkward hugging.

It had been a productive few days. They had taken down a child kidnapper and murderer as well as rescued a lost little boy and returned him to his mother. And Jane had managed to debunk another fake psychic.

The team . . . _Her_ team.

It had been touch-and-go several times. They had gone after Brady Walton, who had proven to be _a_ kidnapper but, in this case, not _the_ kidnapper. Jane had sparred with Nate Glass, the mother's spiritual advisor, repeatedly, all the while—Lisbon believed—attacking the con man he had himself once been. And Lisbon had found herself hard pressed to not do violence to them both when they seemed to forget what was most important. _Not both of them_, she amended her thoughts. Jane had never forgotten. He had watched and waited, sorting out reactions and tells and glances and moods, waiting for whoever had taken Conner Flint to reveal themselves to him.

And he had seen.

Jane might not be a psychic, but he was some kind of _seer_, she sometimes thought. He would have tut-tutted that and ridiculed her endlessly if she ever said it out loud, would've thought her just as silly and gullible as his once-upon-a-time "clients" had been.

Right now, in the quiet of the near-deserted office and the low lights, she put her pen down and her reports aside and looked through the blinds into the semi-darkened bullpen to where Jane lay on the old battered couch, wishing she had a bit of the "gift" herself. Something was troubling him. She believed she knew what. "What" wasn't so difficult with Jane as it had once been. It was the "why" and the "how" that still, after more than seven years, often eluded her, that he most often kept hidden from her.

He was still feeling the sting of his former sins. Another thing she would never say aloud—not in those words at any rate. Jane would throw back his head and howl. But she was certain that's exactly _what_ it was. She just didn't know _why_. Or rather, _in what way_.

Knowing it was unlikely she would ever conjure the answer to her wondering, she picked up her pen and lowered her eyes once more to the paper before her. She read the same line four times, backed up and read the line before it hoping for clarity in continuity then realized she had read it again without actually _reading_ it. When she noticed she had been making tiny air circles with the tip of her pen the whole time, she knew any productivity on the paperwork front was a lost cause.

She pushed away from her desk with a sigh—more out of habit than anything else—and walked stealthily toward the bullpen. Pausing at the doorway, she leaned against the frame and just looked at him for a moment, curious as to what she might see.

He lay with his eyes closed, hands resting lightly at his chest, head pointed toward Cho's desk, face-up as if he had fallen asleep looking at the Elvis-spot on the ceiling. The throw he often used against the evening chill lay across him at a haphazard angle as if he didn't really care if it covered him. He still often feigned sleep, but she had come to be able to tell the real from the fake, and the slight but telltale tightness of his jaw gave him away.

Her own telltale sign was in full force, brow furrowed as she tried to think of a way to approach him. Nothing direct or placating or comforting, she knew. That would end their conversation before it began, swirling away in a breeze of deflection and practiced wit. Anything too light-hearted would be forced and give away her intentions, which at this juncture were unclear even to her. But _he_ would know. He would _see_.

"You're going to bore a hole in my head with your laser vision if you keep looking at me like that."

Unsurprised but a little flustered that she'd been caught in the act, she covered as she always did. Pushing herself off the doorframe, fingertips in her front pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, she sauntered to him.

"I didn't realize I'd given away my secret identity."

"Oh," he chuckled in that lazy way, eyes still closed, "that happened _years_ ago."

"And to think, all this time, you've kept my secret."

"Well . . . I liked to think it was my secret too."

"Your secret too? How so?"

"Maybe not my secret. Just mine to keep."

She stopped and leaned back on his desk looking down at him, her legs stretched out bracing her against its edge. She knew she would be welcome to sit on the couch—she always was. Even if he remained in his current position, she could sit next to him and his only reaction would be to roll slightly to his side and slide back to make room for her, seeming to think nothing of it and saying not a word. It was nice to have someone so comfortable with such familiarity, though it was a familiarity in which she would never engage. Maybe he knew that. Maybe that's why he could afford to be comfortable with it, knowing it would likely never happen. It had taken her years just to get used to sitting side-by-side with him on the thing.

"You've been an admirable sidekick," she said with teasing superiority.

"Hah!" came his soft exclamation. "You just keep telling yourself that."

She said nothing else but didn't move away, and after a few minutes he gave in (Again, she never knew why when he chose to do so—he could always outlast her.) and turned his head, opening his eyes halfway to look down his nose at her with drowsy regard.

"Satisfying case for you, wasn't it." It was not a question.

"Yes. We caught the bad guy—"

"_Guys_."

"—guys," she accepted his correction gladly. "found a little boy and brought him home . . .," she hesitated, mouth slightly open as if she meant to continue, waiting for his prompt.

"And?" he drawled out, knowing she expected his assistance for the delivery.

"_And_ I got to see your _act_," she finished, her eyes twinkling at him in suppressed laughter.

"My . . . act?"

"Mm-hm."

"You thought that was an act?"

"Oh, yeah." Her voice was rich with amusement now, their game on.

"Lisbon, I'll have you know I am a being of great sensitivity,-"

"Su-u-u-re."

"—depth and intuitiveness,-"

"Ri-i-i-ight."

"—heightened, near-cosmic awareness—"

"You're full of crap is what you are."

"Meh," he managed a shrug. "That's probably a good way to describe it too."

"Well, it could be worse."

"How so?" He looked directly at her now, interested in as well as curious about her line of thought.

"You could be as bad as Nate Glass."

"I know. Wasn't he terrible?"

"Oh! The worst!"

"Like bad theatre."

"So true."

He smiled at her appreciatively, and she allowed the corners of her mouth to crinkle back at him just a little.

"You know," he said, "you're getting better and better at picking up your cues."

"Am I?" she bantered back, making it obvious she was fishing for his compliment.

"Yes. I didn't have to look at you funny or clear my throat or anything this time."

"Clear your—," she began in good-natured indignation. "You've never had to clear your throat at me! I've always known how to play my part!"

"No, no, no, my little friend. You've only acquired the flair recently," his tone dripped with condescension.

"You've only let me in on the plays recently," she grumbled petulantly back at him.

He took a moment before he responded, his eyes still smiling at her. "I had to wait until you were ready."

"Bite me."

"Yes. From one of your early forays into the world of show business, I believe."

She dipped her head then, ceding the point to him, her fingers finally coming out of her pockets to rest on the desk edge on either side of her hips, her shoulders relaxing. He watched her with affectionate relief. It was a game he played with himself—not with her—seeing how long it took to get her to relax when he knew she was concerned for him. He halfway thought she realized. It would be like her to never say.

"I'm glad I finally meet with your approval."

"You've proven yourself a worthy apprentice."

"Apprentice!" The indignation was back, though this time there was more authenticity to it.

"Partner?"

She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Well . . .," his voice trailed away, swallowed in another shrug. He guessed there really wasn't a word they could agree on.

"I'm glad I picked up on the cues today. I don't know what he would've done . . .," she ended with a shudder.

"You can't think about that. You don't need to. We got Conner back."

"I don't understand how Jonathan Flint thought that plan would work. Did he really think his father's widow would have romantic feelings for him . . . because he was there to comfort her over losing her son?"

He shrugged again. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

"Yeah, well, this heart needed a brain."

"He was driven by his deep-seated desire to be loved and wanted. It's universal, Lisbon, engrained so deeply in the psyche that it's near impossible to overcome or deny."

"You're not saying that you understand—"

"I'm saying that even crazy people want to be loved."

"You think he's crazy?"

"Oh, as a loon! You said it yourself. She's his father's widow. Oedipal with a twist."

She looked down at where her ankles crossed in contemplation. After a few seconds, she caught movement in her peripheral vision and looked up to see him rub at the furrow between his brows, his eyes squeezed shut against what looked like an oncoming headache. She pushed herself up and started to walk away as he suddenly sat up, swung his feet down to the floor and slid sideways to lean into the arm of the couch.

"I should just let you—"

"Sit," he said abruptly, patting the seat cushion next to him.

"Jane, you look exhausted."

He grunted at her, beckoning with a lofty, rolling hand before repeating the earlier gesture, ignoring her attempt to retreat.

"Looking at you that way was making my head hurt."

It was the first time he'd ever _almost_ admitted to having a headache. She sighed again and gave in, choosing instead to sit at the opposite end, one knee crooked against the couch's back so that she sat sideways. He looked at her a moment, assessing, she knew, trying to determine why she had elected to sit so far away. She laid her arm along the top of the sofa and smirked at him so he would know there was no real reason for it, the smirk blooming into a grin when he turned sideways to mirror her position, his fingertips resting just inches from her own.

"Were you always that . . . dramatic?" she asked softly, her tone implying a request for permission.

"It was always dramatic," he answered, eyes cast downward. "Just not so physical."

She knew he was embarrassed. He looked the way he'd looked when he'd confessed his breakdown. _Not embarrassed_, she thought. _Ashamed_. She wouldn't be sorry she'd brought it up. She wanted to know something about this, about this part of him.

"You were good." She patiently waited for his response.

"I was very good."

"At the act."

"The farce."

"The play."

"The con."

He heaved a sigh, heavy with regret, and she watched his face clear with an almost imperceptible struggle. By the time he raised his face to hers, a carefully constructed grin in place, he was surprised to see her genuinely smiling at him.

"And today I was your assistant."

Her self-pleasure snatched a chuckle out of him.

"That's what they call it in a magic act," he corrected her, eyes squinting.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You were actually a shill."

"Ugh. That sounds really unattractive. I was hoping for something a little more glamorous."

"While I'm sure you'd look _quite_ attractive in something sequined and . . . brief," he overlooked her snort and continued, "it would draw the wrong kind of attention in a con. Your usual daywear was just the thing."

"Well, as long as I was convincing."

"You were. And the slap lent real authenticity."

She tilted her head and her voice went high and airy. "I thought it was a nice touch."

"Well," he rubbed his jaw, "it was definitely a touch. Although I'm inclined to believe it was just another opportunity for you to physically abuse me."

He looked at her questioningly, and she nodded in consideration. "I may have been multi-tasking."

He chuckled again, and her eyes met his. He took a moment to appreciate the sparkle of humor he saw there. He had felt badly for a lot of things over the past few days—that he had scammed Beth Flint and so many like her, that he had preyed upon sad and desperate people and taken their money, that the hope he'd sold years before could engender false and dangerous hope still. And that Lisbon had gotten a glimpse of what he was before. Even though it had been a ruse intended to catch the killer. He didn't like her seeing so much of what he'd been.

"You're not that man anymore."

Her words startled him out of his reverie, and he realized his guard had dropped, leaving him exposed. He hadn't wanted the conversation to go in this direction. But tenacious Lisbon wouldn't let it go so easily at this point.

"Yes, Lisbon, I'm very afraid sometimes that I am."

"No, Jane—"

"Am I sometimes cruel in my words and actions?"

Her eyes narrowed at him in irritation.

"Yes."

"Am I self-absorbed? Self-centered and self-aggrandizing?"

Her lips pursed. "Yes."

"Am I arrogant?"

The purse pushed into a scowl. "Yes."

He leaned back in self-satisfaction, only to have her hurriedly add, "But it's not necessarily a bad or wrong arrogance."

The surprise showed on his face then quickly morphed to a look of mock scorn and disbelief.

"Sometimes," she amended sheepishly before hurrying on again. "Your intentions are different now. You catch people who hurt other people, who take from them and try to destroy them. You help victims get closure, and sometimes, Jane? Sometimes you give them back their loved ones and sometimes you give them . . ."

"What, Lisbon? What do I give them?" He tried for a look of bemusement, but he felt a little desperate to know her opinion on this particular thing, hoping she wouldn't offer empty comfort, hoping she would give an honest appraisal of him, that what he did might have some value.

"Hope."

He felt one eyebrow raise slowly, incredulously at that.

"You give them answers, you tell them who and why and how and you let them move beyond that place where they stop and stall because something awful has happened to them and something irretrievable has been taken from them. You help them know they can keep living and breathing and _going_. That they don't have to stay stuck in that same—"

She bit the words off and her eyes rounded as she realized what she was saying and to whom she was saying it. This was awful, and she was making a mush of everything. Then, she noticed he was smirking at her, and his impudence made her bold.

"You give them something you've never taken for yourself, and _that_, Jane, that's how I know you're not that man anymore."

She had made her point, but she found no triumph, no satisfaction in it. It was true and sad and he couldn't argue with it. She felt a heaviness in her chest that dissolved in relief and gratitude when his eyes met hers and held, no anger or remorse in them, only acceptance of the validity of what she said and the genuineness of her intention.

"Next time I'm in trouble, I think I want you to represent me."

"_Next time_ come to me before you do something to _get_ into trouble."

"Why? What will you do?"

"Oh, I don't know. Slap you around?"

"Again with the abuse."

"Don't be such a baby. I didn't hit you that hard."

"I think your aggressive tendencies impede your ability to accurately—"

"Cut the 'cosmic awareness', Jane."

He grinned at her genuinely and hoped she knew how much he valued her because telling her would make him feel silly. When she leaned forward just enough to allow her fingers to slide up his hand and give him a pat then linger for only a second before she withdrew, he was sure she was telling him in the only way that she could that she did know.

"I've got a little more paperwork. Are you going home?"

"I think I'll lie here a while. Rest my eyes a bit before I drive."

"Okay then."

He watched her push herself up then slid back into his previous position pulling the throw over himself as she walked back to her desk. Thirty minutes later, she put the last report aside and turned out her lamp before gathering her things and stepping out of her office, closing and locking the door behind her. Moving back to the bullpen, her intention to tell Jane good night, she paused in the doorway again before making the decision to move closer.

In true sleep, he was less posed, less polished, more imperfect in his positioning, more relaxed in his expression but just as close to flawless as when he was putting on the act. She didn't like leaving him there, afraid he would spend the night on the couch or awaken shortly and remain to haunt the building. She wondered if he had someplace to go, if he would _ever_ have a place to call and be at home again.

Then, in an instant of startling, white-light clarity, she realized that home need not be a place for him. Home could be people. While the team had been split up, he had focused all of his considerable energy and intellect and incorrigibility on torpedoing Agent Haffnet, his only interest in the case at the time as a possible vehicle to bring them all back together. She knew he had been restless and unsettled until Rigsby and Van Pelt had rejoined Cho in the bullpen and every commendation, every knick-knack, every bean bag had been back in place in her office. They were his home for now, or the closest thing he had to it. It was one of the reasons why he stayed for such long hours, why he could sleep on the couch at least some of the time, even in the middle of the day. It may not be where his heart was, but it was where _they_ were.

On sudden impulse, she quietly deposited her briefcase and keys on his desk then retrieved the throw from where it had fallen on the floor, shaking it out and softly draping it over him, tucking it in lightly at his sides, not wanting him to lie uncovered and exposed. Straightening slowly, she looked down at him for a moment.

_I see too, Jane. Maybe not all, maybe not everything. But I see._

Picking up her things, she made to leave, only turning for a quick detour to the break room. Making a mental note of the tea that needed restocking, she shut out the lights and headed for the elevator.

**END**


End file.
